A Nearly Normal Family(34)

We had just passed the café when she stopped and looked at me.

“No, nothing like that. They met each other out a time or two and knew each other sort of in passing. That was all.”

Her eyes flashed in the half darkness. She had taken one hand from the handlebars, and the bike wobbled.

“Had you met him too?” I asked.

She turned around again, took a firm grip on the handlebars, and pushed the bike ahead of her down the gravel path.

“Amina!” I said, my voice overly harsh. “Stella is in jail! Have you ever been in a jail? Do you know what one of those cells looks like?”

I almost got run over by a jogger with headphones who muttered “fuckin’ old people” at me as I tried to catch up again. Amina slowed down a tiny bit. Silent tears flowed down her cheeks, and my heart ached. My first instinct was to embrace her like a child, like the child she still was to some extent. Instead I begged her to forgive me.

“I’m not doing so well, Amina. This is all driving me crazy.”

“I know,” she said between sobs. “I feel like shit too.”

“Please tell me,” I begged.





31


Amina and I have always had a special relationship. There have been times when Amina preferred to turn to me instead of her parents. I’m quite sure I know things about her that no other adult is aware of.

It was almost four years ago now. Late autumn, after confirmation; the girls were in ninth grade and we were on top of the regional standings for senior girls.

One morning, I discovered Roger Arvidsen standing on the steps of the church hall. He looked dejected and confused in his fur hat.

Roger Arvidsen looked older than he really was. He had recently turned fifty, but poor hygiene and bad genes combined with a sedentary lifestyle, smoking, and constant coffee-drinking had made him look old. He looked in poor shape, with brownish teeth, multiple chins, and dirty fingers. The neighborhood kids called him the Monster.

Each Sunday, Roger dutifully came to church with his mother, with whom he also lived. I quickly made it a habit to converse with him for a bit each time we met, since I suspected he wasn’t used to being noticed by anyone but his mother. There was no denying that Roger wasn’t particularly gifted, but he seemed to be a kind and timid person who deserved to be treated well.

Not once had Roger sought me out on his own, and when we spoke I often had to draw him out. So I realized straightaway that something was wrong when I saw that he was standing on our steps without his mother.

I asked if I could be of service in any way.

Next thing I knew, Roger was sitting in my office, still wearing his fur hat, his teeth chattering. His story hurt me, physically.

Roger explained that he had been visited by a young girl on two occasions. Both times, his mother had just left home to play bingo. He knew the girl wasn’t alone. He had seen her friend down at the front door, keeping a lookout.

The girl had asked if he wanted to invite her in for coffee, so Roger did. That was how he had been raised. When you had visitors, you offered them coffee. The first time, they just talked for a while and then the girl disappeared again. But the next time, she asked Roger out of the blue to take off his pants. He refused, of course. He had no idea what the young girl was up to, but he wasn’t dumb enough to believe she was horny for him. After some persuasion, Roger did allow the girl to sit on his lap. She photographed the two of them on her phone.

“Then she wanted a thousand kronor,” Roger explained. “If I didn’t give her a thousand kronor she would show people the pictures and report me to the police. She said everyone would think I was a pedophile. There are already rumors about me.”

So he had given her one thousand kronor. I found it difficult to blame him for that particular action, at least. He was hardly the first person to buy his way out of false allegations.

But now he had received a note in his mailbox—the girl was demanding another thousand kronor, or else she would give the photos to the police.

“I don’t want anything bad to happen to her,” he said. “It’s just as much my fault.”

I resolutely stood up and assured Roger that I would take care of it right away.

He didn’t even need to say her name. It was obvious whom we were discussing.



* * *



I told Monika, the deacon, that I had a migraine, then went home and banged on the door to Stella’s room until she let me in.

“What the hell have you done?”

And I never curse. Seldom had Stella looked so flattened. She made no excuses, just confessed and swore up and down that she would return the money immediately and apologize. It was just a stupid idea that had gone off the rails. Nothing like it would happen ever again.

I didn’t mention any of it to Ulrika. On one hand this felt like a deception—you’re expected to share this sort of thing with your spouse. On the other hand, I was sparing her; what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. In hindsight, I have to admit that much of my reasoning here revolved around shame. I couldn’t come to terms with what Stella had done, and I didn’t want anyone else, not even my wife, to know about it.

When I saw Roger in church the next Sunday, I took him aside after the service. Once again I had to drag the words out of him.

“Did you get your money back?”